


Make Me Feel

by lasergirl



Category: Spiderman - Fandom
Genre: Bribery, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-18
Updated: 2010-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-10 15:43:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasergirl/pseuds/lasergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>From the Spiderman movie line by Harry; "I want to buy you something. Because it'll make you feel better." James Franco OWNS the teenage sulkangst.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Make Me Feel

**Author's Note:**

> From the Spiderman movie line by Harry; "I want to buy you something. Because it'll make you feel better." James Franco OWNS the teenage sulkangst.

  
There were little imperfections, tiny flaws between them that were all but invisible to anyone else; the touch of a hand that lingered too long, an over-possessive gaze, even the wrong choice of word that sent a chill down Harry's spine.

Since the death of his mother, he had grown closer and farther away from his father. He was at odds to describe it himself, the paradox that was their relationship. This was the man who could immerse himself in his work and business for months at a time, leaving his young son's care to the tutors and housekeepers. At times, Harry wasn't even sure that his father knew he was still alive. But again, at the strangest times, there would be a weird shining moment.

His father forgot his sixteenth birthday, but on the unspoken anniversary of his mother's death (cancer, swiftly, and even all the money in the world couldn't save her) there was a shiny new sportscar in the garage. When Harry asked for the occasion, his father shrugged and smiled slick like oil, saying only "I had one when I was your age."

He wondered vaguely if his father had the sort of life he's given Harry; The penthouse was not the home he grew up in, not even a place of refuge. It exuded his father's persona, the slippery, twisting enigma, the collector of tribal art and voodoo fetishes. There was an entire wall devoted to them in the dining room, a stuffy, formal straight jacket the colour of raw meat. His father loved it - Harry felt his flesh creep whenever he ate under the terrible stares of the masks.

His father's affairs were his own, something Harry forced himself to turn a blind eye to at an early age. He never saw the guests arrive, and never saw them leave, but the bedroom door creaked, the elevator wasn't silent at four a.m. Two sets of dishes in the blood-red dining room were difficult to hide, even from the help. Harry would trail his fingers in the spilled wine and wonder who it was his father was fucking upstairs.

Some days Harry would come home from school, black-eyed from lack of sleep, to find another video camera, television, video game, computer, stereo, with his name on it, brand new and shiny in the hallway. Another brick in the prison wall. He turned away from the ribbon and tag biting his lip till it bled. These offerings couldn't make him feel, couldn't turn his wary acceptance into love.

In public the faces were different, when Harry and his father both wore different masks. They were close, polite but caring. The father stern and particular, but only for the good of his son. The son troubled but responsive, obviously kept to the straight path by the guiding hand of his father. It didn't seem to matter that the hand of his father was gripping too tightly, leaving bruises around his wrist, or sliding too far across his shoulder.

In public, Harry couldn't shrink away from him, slink off to the darker corners of the penthouse where his father's gaze couldn't penetrate. He was trapped in the stares of all the other faces and so he lowered his eyes, shrugged and let his father's guiding hand remain.


End file.
